Self-Immolation
by Atakiri Mizuyuki
Summary: It hurt Marik if he dwelled too much on the Pharaoh, let himself feel the brunt of his anger and hatred and fury. It wasn't the emotional scars that pained him, or even the actual scars gouged into his back that pained him. It was something else, something like a fire deep inside him that, should he tap into it too deeply, would scour him away completely.


Self-Immolation

It hurt Marik if he dwelled too much on the Pharaoh, let himself feel the brunt of his anger and hatred and fury. It wasn't the emotional scars that pained him, their edges ripped wide and the never-healing never-soothed traumas exposed to the sharp air, or even the actual scars gouged into his back that pained him. It was something else, something like a fire deep inside him that, should he tap into it too deeply, would scour him away completely.

He tapped his fingers along the length of the Millennium Rod, thinking. Phantom tingles shivered under the scars on his back, brought about by his contemplation. He hated that. Even after years, after he had broken out of the cobwebs and the stale air and the shadows, even after all of the other scars and wounds and injuries he had received in the last years, it was that carving that always hurt. That would always react to his memories, that always felt the need to laugh at him, taunt him,

_I'm here, I'm always here, I'll always be here, you can't escape what I am, you can't escape what you are, you are a tombkeeper, you belong to the Pharaoh, you belong to the Pharaoh… _

He wanted to scream, but he didn't, because he was stronger than that. He clutched at either side of his head, the Millennium Rod gripped tightly in his hand and his teeth locked together. That Pharaoh, that stupid fucking Pharaoh, who demanded everything, even in death, who demanded that lines and lines and generations of families devote themselves to him, live in shadows for him, whither away in their _worthless_, _meaningless_ lives so that he might not taste so bitterly the tang of death,

who had doomed him and his sister to eternity in a tomb well before their own deaths, who caused Odeon to be tortured, who had destroyed his own father for Marik's transgression, just because Marik didn't do exactly what he wanted, wouldn't _be_ exactly what the Pharaoh wanted, didn't _want _to serve mindlessly and turn to dust and sand having achieved, having done, _nothing_.

The Pharaoh had caused him, them, everyone, so much pain over the years, he could feel it in his back, he could feel it in his mind, he could feel it in the fire that ate through his rage like fuel and threatened to immolate him, so much pain, millennia's worth of pain, but it was nothing, _nothing_ compared to what he would bring the Pharaoh, would reflect back at him like a twisted, warped mirror, as twisted and warped as what he was now from the person he might have been.

He didn't scream, but he laughed, and it rang out from him in great peals, like the _crack_ of logs being rent apart by the heat of flames. He kept laughing, and he couldn't stop, didn't want to stop, if he was being burned alive, _fine_, even the Pharaoh couldn't demand he serve him when he himself was dead.

He laughed while his throat went raw, blood started to gather in his mouth, the sound seemed to warp itself even to his own ears.

"Master Marik?"

He stopped laughing, opened his eyes, lowered the Millennium Rod. He glanced at the door to his room, where Odion was standing sheepishly against the door frame.

Marik brushed his fingers against his lips. It tasted like ash.

"What is it, Odion?" He had that look on his face, the one that was full of concern, the one that was so _patronizing_, the one that made him feel like he was just a little boy again, back in those halls, back in that tomb, back when he played and laughed and every stretch of his muscles didn't cause scars on his back to pull like the tug of memories. He _hated_ that face.

But Odion was his older brother. He could forgive Odion for knowing more than Marik might. Not until Marik had grown to match him.

Odion didn't say anything for a moment, just staring. Marik was sure he was thinking about something and was lost in his own thoughts, but still, it was unsettling. His eyes flicked across the tattoo that covered the side of Odion's face. The flames of anger and hatred that always burnt right at the edge of his self-control seemed to dampen a little. The Pharaoh had caused countless amounts of pain for Marik and the ones he loved—but there _were_ the ones he loved, the ones who tried to take some of the pain so that Marik didn't have to. Odion had taken those markings to remind Marik that he wasn't alone.

And he always did feel so, so alone.

"I wanted to inform you that I was preparing this evening's meal," Odion said, bowing his head. Marik frowned. He also hated that Odion was so deferential to him. They were brothers. "It should be ready in half an hour or so, so if there was anything you wished to finish, you would have time to so."

"Very well," Marik said, turned around so that his back was facing the door. He'd been sitting up in his bed, but now he let himself fall so that he was lying flat. He glanced at his hand, still gripped around the Millennium Rod, and forced himself to let go. He'd been holding it for so long that his fingers ached when he tried to force them open.

Odion hesitated for a moment, and Marik tilted his head back, glancing at Odion upside down. For a moment something flickered at the edges of Odion's lips, as if a smile was trying to break through whatever it was he was feeling.

"I shall inform you when it is ready," he said, bowing and turning away from the door.

Marik closed his eyes and decided that, for thirty minutes, he wouldn't think about anything. He deserved that. After everything, he deserved that.

For the most part, he succeeded. He didn't think of Egypt, or the Pharaoh, or cards, or strategies, or Duel Monsters, or the way the ship rocked as if in mockery of how chaotic his life truly was. He thought of nothing.

Except that he couldn't help but dwell on the taste of soot at the tip of his tongue.

[END]

_The fire is, of course, Yami Marik. I think the dichotomy between Yami Marik and Marik is fascinating and tragic… I wish the show itself went into it a little more, rather than sort of paining Yami Marik as a general antagonist and go for it. Who knows—maybe when I get through the series more I'll see that there was more there than I first considered._

_ Also, in case it wasn't obvious, Odion came down there because he could hear the laughing. And Marik was starting to turn—hence the warping of the sound. But Odion's presence quelled it immediately, which is part of the reason why Marik acts like nothing happened—because Yami Marik started to come out, so he doesn't even really recall the fact that the laugh got out of hand, and only vaguely remembers himself laughing at all. At this point, Marik is still unaware of his other personality. Odion is, hence his "knowing" look._

_ I like the image of Marik glancing, upside down, at Odion—it's very childish. And a nice, and somewhat chilling, reminder that Marik is only sixteen (I know, I know, I thought he was like 18 or 20 or something…)._

_ In case it wasn't clear, this is just me venting some thoughts and images that I have for Marik (I was taking a walk and it started writing itself so when I got home I figured I should write it)._

_ I keep writing these character mental snap-shots, don't I? (In reference to Yami Yugi's "Selfish".)_


End file.
